The Regrettable Accounts of Godfather Death
This is a short fanfiction written by Zena. It's a retelling of the story of Godfather Death through the eyes of the Godfather himself, how the story first occured, how it continued and other details, complete with snarky commentary and odd additions. The Story Once upon a time, there was a man with thirteen children… That’s how my story starts, isn’t it? A man, trapped in a poverty cycle, desperate to have some hope for a child he was cursed with by a failing healthcare system, illiteracy and lack of proper anatomical understanding. Let it be said: although education generally makes one more intelligent, it never does well to doubt those not given such a glorious opportunity. Illuminating thoughts can fall from the homely mouths of peasants, and this man saw reality as clear as any professor. How so? Our humble pauper, wandering through the streets, stumbled upon God and the Devil themselves, both of whom requested godfathership over the newborn. Oh, you should have seen the remarks the man threw! Probing statements on prejudice and sin! Such acerbity I could never imitate! (I do wish I could have seen the resigned look on the deities’ faces.) Meanwhile, I had been casually reaping a soul of a drug addict a few metres away. Back then, I was no “Godfather Death”, but rather a simple reaper with a 6-digit number tag and an ever-growing list of health-induced cases to take care of. There was nothing remarkable about me, just another reaper showing souls their rightful place. Eavedropping on the exchange nearby, I decided to try my luck. “Hey, dude,” I said, in language more colloquial to that far-gone time period. “Heard you needed a godfather.” I swear, his face lit up. Unfortunately not literally, because that would have been a sight. “Death,” he rasped out. “You take men without distinction.” “And women. Let’s not be exclusionary.” “Whatever. You’re my child’s godfather. The christening’s on Sunday. You better make it.” The man might understand reality, but he certainly didn’t understand politeness. Look, I know. That was a mistake. I never intended to be a godfather. The responsibility now loomed over me like a lurking beast. There was something stronger than my self-doubt, though. That was my set of ideals. I believe in literacy, education and the gain of knowledge. I believe in exposing children to these things. Then, an ordinary reaper, how could I have the power to make a change in these things, though? This godfathership blessed me with an opportunity. A child born from dirt can be raised to the stars. My ideas of expansive potential could be immortalised in one clever, learned kid. This mark will be left on the world: if given the chance, anyone can achieve. Questions, ponderings, thoughts, they all invaded my mind. Nothing would calm me but the foundations of a successful plan. At that moment, I told myself, the world will know the name of the Reaper that changed everything. On Sunday, I cradled a baby and blessed it Hippocrates Nightshade. “That’s a dramatic name,” the mother looked at me pointedly. “I like dramatic,” I said, looking down at sweet baby Hippocrates. Hippocrates could read by five, burying himself with books I would too gladly provide. He recited Cicero by twelve, and at thirteen, produced a diagram of the human circulatory system in exquisite detail. There was a fire in his eyes no one could quite place, one that devoured words with an insatiable greed. His family was alienated. Their son was so different that he could no longer integrate himself into the household. My place was his home more than anywhere. At fourteen, the boy looked at me with those burning eyes and said, “Godfather. Let me live out my namesake. It would do me well to become a physician.” “Hell yeah, let’s make that happen.” Was I naive enough to enrol a fourteen-year-old into medical school? Hell no. There was days were I regretted not taking this option, where my son– ahem, mentee, could have developed at his own rate and not fall from grace like he would later do. No, I was impossibly more naive. I gave him a herb. Oh gods, I can hear you judging. I didn’t let him do /drugs/, of course. That’s ridiculous. I did something worse. Hippocrates Nightshade became the first mortal with access of a definitive life-granting herb. I showed him the thick area of the sole forest it grew, told him of its powers (“it’ll heal any sickness, any malady… brilliant!”), and instructed him thus: “We’ll be a team, you and I. If I stand at a sick person’s head, you’ll heal them with this herb; if I stand at their feet, you cannot heal them and they must face fate. Listen to me, and you’ll go far.” And went far he did. He travelled all across Europe, and parts of Asia and Africa. The world hailed the name of the impossibly clever Hippocrates Nightshade. Deep in my heart, I truly believed I created the next father of medicine. I wish I could have lived in my idealistic world, where children believed in the same ideals as you did. Unfortunately, when you’ve been a Reaper, separated from humankind except when you’re bridging the gap without life and death, you sometimes forget about how people are like. The thirst for power, the unquenchable urge to succeed. Under the kingdom we lived in, the monarch himself was struggling against a bacterial infection that threatened his life and soul. Hippocrates was immediately summoned, and saw me standing at the feet. He had to declare the king unable to be saved. Yet, he took a one look at the stern guards and the worrying princess by her father’s bed and resolved to disobey me. With a solemn sigh, Hippocrates ordered the servants to carry up the king’s bed and turn him around. It was wrong, of course. The king’s life was mine to claim. But I couldn’t help but find it amusing that my famed physician found a loophole. “You smartass,” I snorted. My godson’s face quirked up. He looked up at me with a grin. He betrayed me in that moment, but it was so hilarious and clever that I had to let it slide. Unfortunately, that incident stained my record. I failed a job, and that night, a group of Reapers arrived by my door. “Sir,” one said. “You’ve demerited yourself. The Council demands a meeting.” “What.” “I say what I mean, sir.” Whisked over to a meeting, I later sat at a firm oak desk, watching senior Reapers pace about with frowns on their faces and hands stroking their chins. One of them stood up – the leader of this ceremony thing, I suppose – and addressed my crime, calling me irresponsible, reckless, ruinous. “Listen.” The leading Reaper pinched the bridge of his nose. “If this happens once more, and such an incident un-dealt with, there will ''be consequences, understood?” “Sure,” I grinned. “No problem! That, I can do!” The group of Reapers looked at me, in the same way a teacher might questioningly look at a student with an absurd answer. When I went home, I gave a stern warning to Hippocrates that he would not disobey me again. The boy nodded, and everything was well. Until the king’s daughter fell sick too, and my godson called to the princess. The King promised her in marriage to Hippocrates if he could heal her. ''Hmph, I thought. No way is that going to happen. I’m standing at her feet, kid. I was so self-assured, so certain, that when Hippocrates stood up and ordered the guards to turn her around, I gasped loudly and was frozen to the spot, too surprised to move. When he healed the princess and she awoke, I was pissed. Very pissed. So pissed. My record was going to be stained! I would never get a job offer again! Hippocrates needed to learn his place. So, long story short, I sort of dragged him to a cave and showed him the candles of life and snuffed his out, so he died. When his body crumpled on the ground, I cried a little. Okay, maybe a lot. Out of regret, out of pity or just out of stress? I don’t know. I’m an emotional guy, okay? This was why I was always assigned to reap drug addicts, because once I was given the job of reaping a woman who died in childbirth, I had to lie down for the next week. And don’t even begin to talk to me about children– Anyway. The Council of Reapers praised me for making such an important, calculated move, but their words felt empty to me and I felt nothing less than useless. They offered to release my story to other reapers so that they might know of my “important decision” and that I could “inspire others to follow the same route.” My colleagues knew the name of the Reaper who changed everything. The Reaper who let his own ideals overtake his duty, his job. The Reaper who was just an absolute embarrassment and awkward failure. And yet, they called me a success story. That was something I didn’t stand for. How could I be called a success when that was in no way true? I resolved to try the process again, and amend to my mistakes. After Hippocrates was Xenocrates Esfand. Xenocrates was a man of a sweet disposition and adored by everyone, but the Council of Reapers had no mercy. He took one look at the princess, before, likewise, he turned her around. I snuffed out his candle and mourned my idealism. Perhaps men were weak-willed, I thought, as I hopefully wandered the streets again. The next child was a girl. I blessed her Komnene Thyme. And as luck would have it, she too fell for a princess’ charm. I questioned myself. Why did they all fail? Was it my terrible skill with names? My lofty goals? The lack of a proper parental figure in their lives? No what matter, I declared, I would succeed. But every new physician was another failure, and no amount of parenting guides I read were of any avail. The High Council of Reapers dubbed me Godfather Death for my persistence. Godfather Death was mocking. My name was Lanius, my reaper name tag consisted of a unique six-digit value. Two polite and respective ways to call me, and my colleagues would only refer to me by my greatest failure. The universe I lived in was composed of fairytales and childhood songs; the universe I experienced lived vicariously through stories. The tale of my physicians passed from the words of the Reapers to the mutterings of ordinary people, and so, my story was shared into the world. To the wider community, I appeared strict and unforgiving, and I refused to accept this slight on my reputation. No actions of mine could stop the transition of words from mouth to ear, from dinner anecdote to bedtime story. All I could do was accept that the world knew my story. With success, I managed to erase the name of my previous physicians, erase their achieves and erase them from people’s memories. Still, I could not erase the word of my story. A century after Hippocrates’ death passed. It was the 19th century now, we had guns and photography and modern items, and so a modern school was built to house the legacies of today to become the fairytales of tomorrow. Ever After High. The Grimm Brothers knew my story, wrote it down and told me to honour them by finding a physician each generation and sending them to their doom. My sorry cycle of failures repeated. Opportunities were granted though. I finally got funding from the High Council. I renovated my house and installed some snazzy bookshelves. The Reapers of the High Council told me that I deserved these new honours for becoming immortalised through fairytales, but my title and new possessions felt as fitting as oversized garments. Did the positives outweigh the negative, though? I don’t think so. The goal of raising an impoverished child to the stars still rested in my mind, and I had yet to succeed at what I had always planned. Fame and glory was achieved, yet it was so far removed from my original goal. I knew the Grimms would forbade for me breaking destiny. I knew the High Council of Reapers would look down on me, if I toed the line, disobeyed the Storybook, and had my physicians succeed in life for once. I knew my now-lofty position amongst Reapers would be taken away, and I would be confined to that lonely worker who only lead drug addicts across the other side. Still, fairytales change over time. I’m a clever guy, you know, and I have an eternity to work towards. Perhaps I could achieve my goal – slowly, surely, with small alterations. The prospect of sacrificing generation and generation of physicians seem unbearable, though. Category:Fanfiction Category:Original Character Fanfiction Category:Zena's Storybook Collection